


The Line

by Speranza



Category: due South
Genre: Flash Fic, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-31
Updated: 2003-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I turn around, we are very, very close, nose to nose. This is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Line

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for cmshaw (see, I didn't forget?) and for Jodie Louise, just for being Jodie Louise. Also, this story had the fuck betaed out of it—or maybe into it?—by Terri and Resonant. Many thanks!  Written for the "Curtainfic" challenge on [DS_Flashfiction.](http://www.livejournal.com/community/ds_flashfiction/)

I knew this guy, this guy I knew when Stella and me were in one of our cooling off phases, when she wasn't sure she wanted to be with a cop and I wasn't sure I wanted to be with a girl. And this guy, Johnny—god, he was something; hair dyed as black as mine was blond, flat black and dull with dye. Plus his fingernails were painted black which made me look at his hands all the time. They were all scarred up, and I liked them a lot. 

So I spent this one day with him over at his place—a real dive with a single stained mattress on the floor and bedsheets nailed over the windows for curtains. We spent this one long day together where we drank whiskey sours and smoked dope and then ate a bag of Doritos and a half-gallon of ice cream, passing the carton back and forth between us and giggling. Johnny put his Bowie records on the stereo and we sprawled out on his smelly shag carpet debating _Low_ vs. _Hunky Dory_ cut by cut. 

And it was a whole day spent _right on the line_ where either we were friends who had the same taste in music or guys about to fuck like dogs. I think we were both trying put off deciding which way we were going for as long as possible, because it is just so _nice_ to be on that line. But falling off is fun, too—eventually, you get to that shit-or-get-off-the-pot time where you have to move one way or the other. So we fucked finally, and then on and off for about a week before we got bored with each other and called it quits, being that a mutual love of David Bowie can only take you so far in life. I used to see him around the clubs, "Hey man, how you doing?" "Yeah, great, you?" and then less and less once I married Stella and didn't go out so much. 

I wonder whatever happened to him. I hope he came out of it okay. 

Anyway, there's a look you get when you're ready to fall off the line. I've seen it before, and I'm seeing it now—right there on Fraser's face. I'm peeking through the peephole of my door, and Fraser's standing in my hallway, looking really nervous. He keeps raising his hand like he's about to knock, and then not knocking, but his face says he's made up his mind. He's ready, Freddie. 

Though, man, talk about your apples and oranges. Fraser's nails are perfectly manicured, and he looks so clean he squeaks—like a farmhand, like a cowboy, so proper and respectable, so not my type. Johnny would have made fun of him, and I guess I probably would have too, back then. I would have thought he was Mr. Who The Fuck Does He Think He Is? Except now I know who he is, he's Fraser, and he's a supernaturally good guy. 

Fraser knocks, finally, and I only hesitate for a second before I open the door. 

"Yo," I say, stepping back. 

"Ray," Fraser says, looking surprised and kind of unprepared. It's a new look on him, and I think I like it. "Hello." 

"Come on in," I tell him, and _this is it_ , I know this is it, this is the day that we fall off the line, and I'm so excited I can hardly keep still. "You want some tea, a beer, or—?" 

"I want—" and god, what it seems to be costing him to speak. "I was in the neighborhood and I thought..." Suddenly, Fraser holds up his other hand, and I notice he's carrying a small paper bag. "I brought—um. Sugar," he says, and suddenly his face is red, really red, and he's thrusting the paper bag at me. Baffled, I open it, but it's just what Fraser says it is. Sugar cubes, the old-fashioned kind that your grandma had when you were a kid, that she put in her tea with little tongs. "You, er. Never seem to have any," Fraser says, sounding strangled, and I realize that this is Fraser's idea of a courtship gift, what he's brought me instead of chocolate or a corsage. _Sweets for the sweet,_ I can hear my mother say, and I have to dig my nails hard into my palm not to laugh. 

"Thanks." I pad into the kitchen in my bare feet to put the sugar in the cupboard, which gives me a second to pull myself together. "That's real nice of you to think of." 

I know he's right behind me—I mean, _right behind me_. When I turn around, we are very, very close, nose to nose. _This is it._ I was hard the minute I heard his footstep in the hallway, and there is just no way we're leavin' this kitchen the same as we came in. 

I lean in to whisper in his ear, brushing his cheek with mine, and my God, Fraser's skin is _hot_. "I want to do it with you," I whisper, and okay, maybe that wasn't the most romantic way of putting it, except it's the God's honest truth. "If you want to," I add quickly, but I'm guessing he wants to, because his arms come tight around me, and he's sucking my earlobe, licking and kissing my ear. 

I turn my face and capture his mouth, kissing him as hot and nasty as I know how. I think maybe I'm going to teach him a thing or two, but I forgot about the tongue, that tongue, and if Fraser's kind of a buttoned-up guy, there is nothing buttoned-up about that tongue. He may look all proper and respectable, but he kisses like he never heard of shame. 

I don't know how I keep standing upright. Wait, I do know—Fraser's holding me up, because he's turned me into a shaking, turned-on mess. 

Fraser gives my ear another lick, and then I hear this faint, wet sound—half a lick, half a slurp—except Fraser is not licking _me_. Mystery solved a few seconds later when Fraser slides his hands down the back of my sweats, cups my ass, and puts a finger in me. _Holy shit_ —who'd'a thought?!—and I can't help myself, I'm pushing backwards, hard onto his hand. Fraser's heroically fighting gravity—locking his knees, struggling to keep us upright—but I don't care, because he's groaning and kissing me and fucking me with his finger and who cares which way is even _up_ right now? 

Fraser cares, though, because next thing I know I'm reeling through space—he's moving me, shoving me across the kitchen, and I am just letting him. The backs of my thighs hit the kitchen table and I flop over backwards, feeling boneless—and for a second I'm just lying sprawled there while he stares down at me. 

Still wearing his jacket. Fraser hasn't even taken off his jacket. 

Fraser doesn't seem to give a shit about the fucking jacket. He's staring at me and hey, I'm getting it—this is the moment of the smorgasbord and I am what's on the menu. Fraser's flushed and breathing hard—and then he reaches down and yanks my sweatpants down my legs and off, stripping me naked from the waist down. I let him do it, I just lie there and let him—because I know that the fastest way to get him to fuck me is to do nothing, just stay out of his way. So I lie there, panting and waiting, wearing only my t-shirt—arms relaxed, legs dangling off the table. 

Fraser's the _man_ with a _plan_. 

Except Fraser's not looking like a man with a plan—Fraser's just looking mesmerized. I look where he's looking: at my dick, which is bobbing near the hem of my t-shirt. His hand is hot where it's resting against my thigh, and he's watching my balls tighten, watching my cock drool for him. 

Finally Fraser forces his eyes away from my dick and finds my face, and I can't help it—I tilt my head a little and grin at him. "Take your jacket off, Fraser. Stay a while," and Fraser glances down at himself like he's only just realized that he's still dressed. He nods jerkily, and then wrenches the jacket off and lets it fall to the floor behind him, Mountie manners completely gone to hell. His blue shirt, carefully ironed, stretches over his shoulders—and okay, maybe Fraser isn't my normal type, but I'll bet I'm not his type either. I'd lay money on it. 

Fraser pushes my legs apart and steps between them—and then just folds himself down on top of me. I wrap my arms around that nice-looking blue shirt, hugging him to me, rubbing his back. Fraser buries his face in my neck and just breathes me in. He's all heavy and warm, and trying to calm down a little before he fucks me, I think. 

When Fraser kisses my neck and lifts his head, he's still looking desperate, but more controlled than he was. "I just," he stammers, "I just want to say—" but then he doesn't say anything, like he's forgotten the words. "That you," he tries again, and then he's kissing me seriously, and the talking part of this seems to be over. 

"Fraser," I gasp. "Shut up and fuck me," and he jerks against me like he's being electrocuted. For a second I think—shit, game over, he's gonna come before he even gets his pants off—but it just gets him moving, off me and the table and right where I tell him to go, to the bathroom for lube. Meanwhile, I slide off the table and turn around, bracing myself, curling my fingers over the sides. Fraser's back in a second, breathing hard, but his hands are steady as he uncaps the tube and lubes up his fingers. 

First touch of his fingers and my arms buckle a little—no way can I support the weight of this feeling. I let my head hang and gasp down at the tabletop as he finger-fucks me open, and it ain't a bicycle I'm riding but my body still remembers. I'm trying to be still, I'm trying to be patient. He wants to play with my ass, I'll let him—except I'm flying high on this feeling and I can hear myself moaning louder and louder. I'm just about to shout, "For God's sake—come on already!!" when I finally hear the zzzzip of Fraser's jeans. 

Ohhhh fuck...he's pushing it into me and I'm hissing in short, sharp bursts, sucking air through my teeth. He stops, and I manage to get out, "Go—go—it's good," and then he's shoving forward again, putting it to me. Christ, I'm sweating—I'm sweating and the muscles in my ass and stomach are spasming, trying to cope with the strain. 

My whole body is vibrating, and it's been what?—sixteen months?—since my last fuck and I am feeling every month of it. And now here I am being fucked on the kitchen table by a Mountie in a pressed blue shirt. 

You never know what life's gonna throw you. 

I twist my head around and see that Fraser's eyes are closed and, seriously, the only sign here that he's six inches up my ass is the fact that he's panting, and his perfect hair's fallen into his face. He takes a breath and swallows hard and fucks my ass and _goddddd,_ that feels good. He shifts upwards and bears down, shoving me onto the table, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other clutching hard at my hip. I brace my hand again to protect my face—god, he's shoving into me, fucking my hole, and I am spasming around him. Fuck, I wish I could see him going into me, stretching me wide. 

I'm biting my lip when Fraser finds his rhythm—and my sweet spot. My body floods with pleasure and I start gasping and shaking—-oh yeah, I wonder if he, does he, does he normally fuck only clean-cut boys like himself? Christ, christ...and my hands are flexing, closing on empty air, and I'm shaking my head, no, no, not yet, too soon — 

I'm right on the edge when I feel this sharp, sudden pain and my eyes flick open. 

Fraser's bent over me, chest pressed to my back, and he's got his hand tight, tight, tight at the base of my cock. "Easy, Ray," he gasps, "take a deep breath and..." 

I nod jerkily, and take a deep breath, filling my lungs. The compulsion to come leaves me a little, and I nod again, telling him to go for it. He takes a deep breath himself and then he does, shoving my legs apart even further and shoving into me where I'm stretched tight. This can not last long—nothing this good can ever last long—and even though he's gritting his teeth and straining not to come there are forces more powerful than him, even. Like my fucking orgasm, which suddenly grabs me and shakes me like a rat and I'm shooting long strings of come onto my belly, damn his hand, damn the pressure. And through the rush of blood in my ears I hear Fraser moaning—he's just jerking into me, now, short sharp thrusts, and then I'm wet inside and he's coming too. 

I'm face down on the table, and Fraser collapses on top of me. We lie there for a while, both of us panting, trying to get our breath back. 

I turn my head sideways, and I can see my blue and yellow kitchen curtains, looking all proper and respectable. Heh. "I've got a bed, you know." 

Fraser hmms into my shoulder. "Yes, I've heard of such things." Then suddenly I hear a breathy sort of snort, and I twist my head to look at him. He meets my eyes—and he is flushed and panting and laughing. "Never cared for them myself," he says, and his delicious mouth twists into a grin that's neither proper nor respectable at all.   


End file.
